


Tangibility

by romanoff



Series: Substance [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Dom Steve Rogers, Dom/sub, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Tony, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve, Separation Anxiety, Sub Tony Stark, Tony Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 22:00:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1363279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanoff/pseuds/romanoff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sometimes, Tony dreams of ash and dust. Of infinite skies and dying worlds. The feel of leather on his skin, the brush of metal on his fingers. Sometimes he see’s cruel smiles, a feral glint; the smell of cigars that burn his throat.</p><p>Recently, he dreams of yellow and blue. A shining light, luminous and uplifting. Flashes of colour on a canvas of sand and death that paint the pain away. Long and languorous, the strokes of light will chase away the shadows."</p><p>Steve leaves and Tony panics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tangibility

**Author's Note:**

> So this is just a little thing before I start working on the main story of this series.

 Sometimes, Tony dreams of ash and dust. Of infinite skies and dying worlds. The feel of leather on his skin, the brush of metal on his fingers. Sometimes he see’s cruel smiles, a feral glint; the smell of cigars that burn his throat.

Recently, he dreams of yellow and blue. A shining light, luminous and uplifting. Flashes of colour on a canvas of sand and death that paint the pain away. Long and languorous, the strokes of light will chase away the shadows.

Now, he awakes to Steve. Or to the indentation where his body usually lies. He likes to jog, rises at 5am, out by half-past, back by 7am. At which point he will shower. If it’s the weekend, he’ll make breakfast for Tony (two eggs, two toast, one glass of orange juice, 252ml, freshly squeezed) and they’ll eat in bed, laughing, talking, planning and other things, too, if the day is empty.

He awakes to the feeling of something better. Of hope. He awakes happy.

It doesn’t take much to bring the memories hurtling back.

The scent of cigar smoke. A sentence, spoken in an unusual inflection. A certain date. The smell of his cologne, his old spice that Steve no longer wears after one particular incident. Mostly, he’ll blank out, just for a moment. He’ll remember and then force himself forward, grin, and continue. He might be more reserved for the rest of the day but then Steve will hold him close and he’ll feel himself relax. Breathe both deeply and freely.

He carries with him a feeling of warmth that he’s never really known. It pains him often that this could have been his, years ago, maybe not with Steve but another dom, another who would hold him tight, make him breakfast, challenge to a battle of wits during the day and dominance in the night. Who could have given him what he wanted. And that instead he wasted decades with a man who held him in contempt, whose favourite past-time was making him feel as low as he could, building him high and then ripping the structure out from beneath him. A sadist, whose only real pleasure derived from making Tony hurt.

He has the chance to change that now. For what remains of his life he can have a little taste of happiness. He deserves it, probably. Steve seems to think so and that’s good enough for him.

 

* * *

 

 

He’s working in his garage, he has the plans for the world’s first arc-powered helicarrier on his screen. He has a countdown in his head, almost automatic, going down in the seconds it will take Steve to walk through his door and bring him up for air. It’s harder to stop the numbers when he’s down here, his mind is practically conditioned for it. 106 seconds until Steve opens the door, 367 until he leaves, defeated, and then another 18,236 seconds until Steve says ‘enough is enough’ and drags him bodily from the garage. Wait, he needs to take into account one hour (3600 seconds, give or take a few) for any outlying variables (phone call, sparring match, burnt dinner etc.) so that would make —

Oh.

He remembers with a sudden jolt, like a shock, that Steve in Washington tonight. And that he will be in Washington for the next two nights. Of course he will. So.

Tony turns back to the screen, submits the design for the first of what will be many needed approvals. Then he makes some coffee. Drinks it. Closes his eyes for a moment, tries to slow the numbers that have stopped counting down and are now counting up, up, up, till the moment in two days time that Steve will walk through that door.

Tony feels a shiver roll down his spine. He taps at his keyboard, surfs the net, watches TV from his chair. Some hours pass.

The nagging feeling won’t leave so he does some press-ups. Maybe he should eat something. He decides to call Steve instead.

He’s unreasonably anxious as the phone rings, he can’t stop drilling his fingers against the smooth glass top of his desk.

“Hello?”

“Steve!”

“Tony? Tony, hi, how’re you doing?” Steve is cheerful, his tone relaxed, calm. It goes some way to quenching the fires of worry in his gut.

“No, no, I’m fine, just calling. You know. _Checking up on you._ ”

“Jesus, Tony, you would not believe the day I’ve had, these _idiots_ I swear…”

And so he launches into a story that Tony doesn’t really listen to, just says ‘mmm’ and ‘yeah’ in all the right places and focuses on the lilt of his voice, the cadences of his accent. It washes over him, gives him a tight feeling of security that burrows into his bones, warms his heart. It loosens the knot around his chest and he can stop counting.

“…And make sure you’re eating. And sleeping. Promise me, yeah? Don’t go on a work bender, Tony.”

He rolls his eyes and he’s 99.9% sure Steve can actually hear it through the phone because he says “Please, Tony, for me” and Tony can’t say _no,_ can he, who could actually say _no_ to that voice, you’d have to be a sociopath or dangerously low on empathy to not feel warm and fuzzy and want to curl up in those words and yeah wait that might actually just be him and damned sub-ness.

So he says bye, hangs up the phone. Feels a little bit at a loss so he swivels in his chair a bit. He must have things to do. What would he do before Steve?

_Drink_ he thinks but pushes it away.

_You could go out. Y_ eah, maybe, why not, he hasn’t seen Rhodey in a while —

_Are you sure Steve wants you to go with another dom, though? It’s probably best to stay at home._ And on second thought, yes. It’s not like Steve would _stop him_ from seeing Rhodey but some doms getprecious. And Steve’s not here, but still, you wouldn’t want to risk punishment.

He shivers because it’s cold.

More hours pass and he doesn’t leave his workshop. It feels safe down here, at least he knows no one can get him, just in case, obviously, because no one is after him but better safe then sorry. He takes a shower, in and out, and he can’t shake the feeling of being on edge. It follows him, hangs over him like a dark cloud —- _no, not a dark cloud, anything but that —_ like a heavy weight, a concrete block. He doesn’t really know what to do with himself.

He calls Steve again.

“Hello?”

“Steve!”

“Tony? What’s wrong? You called three hours ago?” He sounds vaguely concerned down the line, as if he’s calling to check that he didn’t leave the door unlocked.

Tony blanks, for a second “… I did, didn’t I? I was looking for Pepper, something’s gone wrong with my phone. Must of pressed recent calls or something, I don’t know.” He feels suddenly, violently embarrassed. What exactly is he doing?

“Well, if that’s it, I’ll see you soon, okay?” His voice tails up in a question, he’s going to hang up the phone and leave Tony —

“What, so soon?” Tony forces his voice stay light “Don’t you want to talk to me?”

He can almost hear Steve frown “I think you should go to bed. Did you eat? You did eat, right?” Again, he sounds anxious, like he’s the one that has to be concerned.

“No, no, I… I ate, obviously, Steve,” _lie “_ I just want to _talk.”_

Steve sighs down the line “Go to sleep, Tony. You need to rest. I’ll _see you soon,_ okay?”

“Bye, Steve.”

“Bye, Tony.”

“Wait. Wait, Steve — ”

But he’s already hung up.

Tony does not sleep that night.

 

* * *

 

 

So the next day, he stays in his workshop, works on updates for the suit that he’ll never really implement, eats some crackers, watches poor daytime TV and spins in his chair until he feels sick. He wishes he could sleep but he can’t. He’s missing Steve like a deep ache in his gut, he’s _worried_ and he can’t place it.

He’s not worried for _Steve._ It’s just that without him here he feels tossed loose, like he’s been thrown into the ocean with no weight to anchor him. He doesn’t know what’s coming next and he doesn’t know his way back to shore. He can almost feel tears prickling at his eyelids and it’s pathetic he _doesn’t know what’s wrong._ He’s no stranger to anxiety, obviously, but this is different. This is almost like when that time Obie stopped speaking, just wouldn’t _talk to him_ and _left him_ and he _didn’t know what he’d done wrong._ And he knows, rationally, that Steve is working, and that he’s calling Tony, and he’s worried that Tony isn’t eating and sleeping and that’s good, that is all good-dom behaviour. But he wants to call Steve _now_ and Steve sounded like he didn’t want to talk to Tony too much last night, that he should limit his calls to one a day, maybe. So Tony should wait for Steve to call him because that means that it won’t look like he’s being pathetic and Steve won’t pity him or think he’s weird or something. Yeah. Okay, he’ll wait for Steve to call.

His minds calms as he reaches this conclusion, as he separates all the variables, sorts them into different categories and works through his worries. He will wait for Steve to call. In the meantime, he’ll get something to eat. There’s nothing pressing that needs to be done so he can work through that stack of paperwork Pepper delivered two nights ago at his own pace. There. Simple.

He’s bone tired after thirty-six hours on his feet but he pushes it down, drinks some coffee. It’s fine, he’s fine.

Tony jumps every time his phone vibrates, startled and _hoping,_ hoping that this time it will be Steve, that he’ll be able to talk to him, that he’ll be able to reassure himself that Steve does care, Steve does like him, and that no, he is not being annoying, or pathetic. But hours pass and Steve does not call.

Tony sits on the couch in his workshop, half-curled in a blanket. He’s tired, so tired, but he doesn’t want to fall asleep in case Steve calls and he misses it. Because then Steve might think he’s being rude or something, and he’s not, he just wishes Steve would hurry up.

One hand rests on the arm-rest, next to his mobile. Just so that when it rings he’ll be ready. He’ll let it ring, once, twice maybe three or four times just so Steve doesn’t think he’s too eager but enough that he doesn’t think Tony’s ignoring him or purposely avoiding him.

Another hour passes, it’s a new day and technically Steve will be coming home this evening. He assumes that Steve is still awake because he wouldn’t go to sleep without calling? Or maybe he would? Tony feels a building anxiety, because he had decided to wait for Steve to call but the deadline’s passed, hasn’t it? Maybe Steve isn’t _going_ to call.

Tony doesn’t even bother thinking about picking up the phone and ringing him himself. He can’t remember why he’s built such a block around it but it’s not an option. He can’t annoy Steve, that’s it, if he rings Steve might think he’s annoying. Waiting for Steve is better because it means that Steve is wanting to definitely talk to him. 

Tony remembers when he would annoy Obie. Obadiah. Stane. He should probably call him Stane. Anyway, he remembers when he would annoy Obie, and he could never really tell when he over-stepped the mark, because sometimes when he was in a good mood Obie — _Stane —_ wouldn’t mind his chatter, or his persistence. He would laugh fondly or sparr back, a war of wits. And when Tony won, he would chuckle and rub his hand on Tony’s neck, that spot where if he’s touched now he slips down into a free-spiralling panic. 

Obie’s mood could change in a heartbeat. One second he would be smiling and the next he would have Tony bent over a desk, arm twisted behind his back, spitting in his ear until he released him and Tony would fall, boneless, to the floor. He had no pride left when it came to Obie. Anything for an easy life. He would beg him then, to stop. He would let himself be trampled on for the sake of a few moments uninterrupted _peace._ But Steve isn’t like that, he’s kind and warm. He only punishes him when he deserves it, when he _needs it,_ anything to stop the numbers running through his head. The weight of leather slapped against his ass paring everything down, stilling the frantic calculations, the persistent memories of breath in his ear, a hand on his neck and old cigar smoke on his throat.

Steve hasn’t fucked him yet. He won’t, he says, not until they’re both ready. And Tony is ready, what Steve really means is ‘until _I’m_ ready’ which implies that maybe he doesn’t want to fuck Tony? 

He knows that he’s overthinking but that doesn’t stop the strikes of worry that line his chest. There’s no point sleeping now, it’s nearly morning and Steve might still call. He’ll find something to do in the meantime.

Except he doesn’t. He breathes slowly through his nose, in and out, hard and heavy. Tries to calm himself, it doesn’t _mean_ anything, Steve could have been tired, he could have fallen asleep or lost his phone or anything. It doesn’t mean he’s ignoring Tony, it _doesn’t._ He’s not Obie, he wouldn’t. Although Tony doesn’t really know? Maybe he is like that, maybe he is that kind of dom and he never noticed. What is he comes home and he’s angry and he —

Tony clutches the phone with his hand, his knuckles white, he just wishes Steve would _call,_ put him out of his misery. At least if he calls then Tony will know if he thinks he is annoying and then he can’t complain that it was Tony who called him. He might punish him anyway, though.

He sits on his couch. Dummy whirs past once, twice, three times and tries to shake him from his stupor. But he doesn’t. Move. He’s too tired. He’s too scared. Not moving seems like the best option.

* * *

 

Steve comes home at 21:48 that evening. 

He walks through his and Tony’s floor, can’t find him and it only takes him 2 second with no prompting from Jarvis to realise that Tony is obviously in the workshop.

He supposes it means that he hasn’t eaten dinner, and probably skipped lunch. God knows what time he would have gone to sleep at.

He expects flurry of activity but the workshop is silent. It’s a sound that pervades the boundaries of sense, because surely silence is not a noise. Yet the ringing in Steve’s ears tell him differently.

There’s a chirping, Dummy, obviously. Dummy, who’s claw is caught in Tony’s shirt and who is tugging, trying to move his creator.

“Tony? Tony, are you okay?” He crouches done in front of him, and obviously something is wrong. It’s written in the lines of exhaustion on Tony’s face, the way he is shaking, how his hand is wrapped tight around his mobile. He doesn’t flinch when Steve talks but he does look ahead, aware eyes swimming with unshed tears.

“Sweetie? Tell me what’s wrong,” he prises the phone from Tony’s grip, settles the blanket on his lap around him properly “you haven’t slept, I can tell. Are you… Tony? Tony.” He shakes him slightly, and he is careful, so careful, even though it’s obvious that something is wrong, something is wrong wrong wrong. He wonders if Tony is having another incident. They happen, sometimes, triggered by certain phrases, sights and smells. 

Tony gasps, suddenly. Comes back to himself. Looks Steve in the eye briefly and then away, down to the blanket in his lap. His hands fist the material.

“You won’t… you won’t punish me for this? You won’t. I’ll… I’ll leave. Jarvis can take you out,” his voice is stuttered, yet defiant “he can, I have, I have things in place. And I can leave. You can’t hurt me.”

“Tony? Tony, please,” he swipes hair from his brow “I don’t care that you didn’t sleep, I would never _punish_ you for that, what are you — do you want me to? Is that it?” he continues, voice soft “Did you have… were you worried? Is that why you couldn’t sleep? Do you need me to hurt you?”His voice is a whisper and it curls down the back of Tony’s neck, settles at the bottom of his spine. Obie never would have asked. Never. Tony looks Steve in the eyes.

“You didn’t call,” His voice is plagued with fatigue but he continues regardless “you didn’t call… last night? I think, I think it was last night. I was waiting. For you. Uh…” he blinks rapidly “I thought, well, I thought maybe you were ignoring me. But, but it’s fine. You’re not. So. If we could forget this it would be… greatly appreciated.” He heaves a sigh.

Steve cups Tony face in his wide, strong hands, no threat in his motions. He runs his thumbs down Tony’s cheeks “Why would that matter,” his voice sounds hoarse “why wouldn’t you call _me_ if you wanted to talk? Tony, please.”

“I… I didn’t want you to get mad,” Tony’s voice is so tremulous that he wants to scoop him into his arms and hold him so close until the bad thought go away “I didn’t… I felt wrong. And I called but I didn’t want to _annoy_ you. Or…” he voice catches, breath hitches “I didn’t want you to think that I was being, uh, _persistent._ Or distracting you. Because you would come home and then… and then —“ his face crumples, but he does not let tears fall “you would _punish_ me. Like, you would hurt me but you wouldn’t stop when I say red? Or, or you might lock me up, you might, he did that, he would lock me up,” Tony’s breath speeds up, it comes down hot and heavy, wet and laboured “and I thought, _you didn’t call, you_ had to be the one to call, I couldn’t call you, but you didn’t call me and I thought you were, that you might be —“ Tony is panicking, his hands are tightening around his blanket, his eyes are verging on unseeing but he continues “that you would _ignore_ me and that I wouldn’t be sure what I’d done wrong, what, what, or why.”

He doesn’t cry and Steve cusps his face, grounds him until he begins to follow his breathing, until it evens out, becomes deep, and mellow.

“Okay,” Steve says quietly “why don’t we have a shower and go to bed. We’ll talk about about this tomorrow. Yes?”

Tony nods, sags. He’s so willing to be given over to his dom, have his decisions made for him. He’s so tired. He. He’s so tired.

Steve washes his hair in the shower, he kneels in front of him and lets himself be taken care of. Steve is always careful not to let it run into his face, to confuse him. He is always kind like that. He would never hurt Tony in that way.

They dry off. He climbs into bed, doesn’t bother with clothes. Crawls under the covers as Steve settles down to read. Presses his back against Steve’s warmth, feels as his hand come to curl in his hair. He loves it when Steve strokes his hair.

Shuts his eyes and waits for sleep that will not come.

Ten minutes. Twenty. Thirty. Forty. Fifty. An hour. Steve’s hand remains a constant presence, he sits, reading his book. Tony has a feeling he might be waiting.

“I can’t sleep.” He says finally, rolls onto his back and looks at the ceiling.

“I know,” he folds the page of his book “I can tell. Get onto the floor.”

Tony’s belly flips but he does as he’s told. He lies on the floor at the foot of the bed. His skin prickles slightly but he doesn’t complain. Steve can help.

His dom crouches down by his head, looks at him with thoughtful eyes “Do you trust me? Ah —“ he puts a finger to his lips “no talking. Just nod or shake your head.”

He nods, of course he nods, Steve is possibly the only person in the world that he trusts.

“And you know what to say if you need to stop?”

Another nod.

“Good boy.” And he starts to position Tony’s limbs, bends his legs at the knee and spreads them, then moves his arms so they lie extended on the floor, palms turned down. He slips a hand behind the small of Tony’s back and gently lifts so that the bottom half of his body is raised completely from the floor, supported only by the weight on his shoulders and arms.

“Keep that position. Ten minutes. Every time I think you slip I add an extra minute, understand?” Steve is using his dom voice and Tony’s mind begins to sink down as he nods.

Steve takes his place at the foot of the bed, watches his sub on the floor as he pretends to read. After only a minute, Tony’s muscles are shaking. His eyes are fixed with the intensity of doing what his dom says, not letting his body fall. With each passing second Steve can see him slip further and further into his own head.

At two minutes, the first beads of sweat work there way down Tony’s brow. It must be irritating but he doesn’t notice. He huffs breath through his nose, can’t let his dom down, cannot disobey. He must keep posture, must, has to, has to be good, Steve said so.

The room crackles with a quiet intensity. Tony’s brow furrows with the strain and at four minutes he relaxes his shoulders, letting his ass drop slightly.

“No,” Steve’s voice is like a bolt of lightning, Tony flinches as he quickly forces his ass back into position “Extra minute. Seven left.”

Tony whimpers, breathes hard but even, in and out, in and out. Sweat cloaks his body, he shines in the dim light. His skin is such a perfect match for the cream carpet, his muscles throw such interesting shadows along his lithe form. He’s shaking, his muscles straining.

“Four minutes.”

He moans. Moans and presses his head back into the carpet as far as it will go, bears his neck and lets it take some of his weight. It’s beautiful, he’s beautiful. It’s so perfectly submissive, he stretches his body, all for Steve. He’s trying so hard because he doesn’t want to disappoint, wants to follow Steve’s orders. He wonders how Stane could have ever wanted to harm this, ever wanted to rip him down and crush his spirit. Why. What sort of sick, twisted individual does that to a man like Tony, a shining, gleaming example of humanity, in all it’s flaws but also it’s greatest features?

“You’re doing good, Tony. Just one more minute.”

Tony pants. He pants and squirms on the floor. He can, he can, just one more minute, he can hold, hold himself for Steve. 

In that last minute everything falls away, every worry, every inarticulate thought that has ever crossed his mind. Everything comes down to the press of carpet that burns his shoulder, his slick sweat that ghosts the crevices of his body, Steve’s voice, telling him not long now and finally the beat of his own heart, steady, thick and _real._

He collapses onto the floor as his muscles shake. He can’t move, he’ll just, here, staying here seems like a good idea. Beds are overrated and he can finally _sleep,_ crises flown he takes the moment to simple _be,_ to just _exist._

He knows that it’s Steve who collects him, still panting into his arms, kisses his brow and holds him close. That’s okay, Steve is safe. Safe and warm. Warm. Like fire, but not hot. Doesn’t burn. Never hurts, always kind, never vicious. Steve.

They’re together, in bed. Steve holds Tony tight, really holds him, so close. He wishes he could remove, wipe clean every little tarnish Obadiah left on his soul, every single _stain._ Wash them clean and heal Tony overnight. But that won’t happen. He takes comfort in the fact that with him, Tony is happy. That he may still hurt inside, sometimes, but that for the most part his is happy.

It’s a future together that Steve sees now, clear and bright, and tangible on the tips of his fingers. All they need to do is reach out and fly.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are GREATLY APPRECIATED and if you have any questions or prompts find me on MY NEW writing blog [romanoff](http://writingromanoff.tumblr.com/)


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